Harlan Ellison: Ellison Wonderland

So the ship had been constructed. But who was to go? The Earthmen who pondered this question knew the awesome responsibility of that emissary. They had to be careful whom they picked. So they had reasoned it was too big a problem to lay in the hands of mere humans, and set the machines on it. They had set the Mark XXX. the UniCompVac, the Brognagov Master Computer and hundreds of the little brains to the task.

After sixteen billion punched cards had gone through three times, the last card fell into the hopper, and Wilson Herber had been elected. He was the most fit to travel across the hundred galaxies to the home world of the Masters of the Universe, and offer his credentials to them.

They came to Wilson Herber in his mountain retreat, and were initially greeted by threats of disembowelment if they didn’t get the bell away and leave him in his retirement!

But judicious reasoning soon brought the ex-statesman around. Herber was one of the wealthiest men in the world. The cartel he had set up during the first fifty-six years of his life was still intact, run entirely now by his lieutenants. It spanned every utility and service, every raw material and necessity a growing Earth would need. It had made Wilson Herber an incalculably wealthy man. It had led him into the World Federation Hall, where he had served as Representative for ten years, till he had become Co-Ordinator of the Federation.

Then, five years before the golden Masters had come, he had completely retired, completely secluded himself. Only a matter of such import could bring the crusty, hardheaded old pirate out of his sanctuary—and throw him into the stars.

“I’ll take the credentials,” he advised the men who had come to him. He sat sunk deep in an easy chair, a shrunken gnome of a man with thinned grey hair, piercing blue eyes, and a chin sharp as a diamond facet. “You must establish us on a sound footing with their emissaries, and let them know we walk hand-in-hand with them, as brothers,” one of the men had told Herber.

“Till we can get what we might need from them, and then assume their position ourselves, young man’}” Herber had struck directly—and embarrassingly—to the heart of the question.

The young man had hummed and hawed, and finally smiled down grimly at the old ex-statesman. “You always know best, Sir.”

And Wilson Herber had smiled. Grimly.

The planet rose out of Inverspace. It was incredible, but they had somehow devised a way to insert their world through the fabric of space itself, and let it impinge into not-space.

Herber, cushioned in a special travel-chair, sat beside Captain Arnand Singh, watching the half-circle that was their planet-in-Inverspace wheeling beneath the ship.

“Impressive, wouldn’t you say, Captain?”

The Moslem nodded silently. He was a huge man, giving the impression of compactness and efficiency. “This is almost like a hadj, Mr. Herber,” he noted.

Wilson Herber drew his eyes away from the ship-circling viewslash and stared at the brown-skinned officer. “Eh? Hadj? What’s that?”

“What my people once called a pilgrimage to Mecca. Here are we, Earthmen, journeying to this other Mecca…”

Herber cut him off. “Listen, boy. Just remember this: we’re as good as them any day, and they know it.

Otherwise they wouldn’t have extended us any invitation. We’re here to establish diplomatic relations, as with any foreign power. So get this Hadj business out of you.”

The Moslem did not answer, but a faint smile quirked his lips at the bravado of the man. The first Earthmen to visit the Masters’ home-world, and he was treating it as though it were a trip to a foreign embassy in New New York. He liked the old man, though he had a healthy dislike for the inherent policies he stood for.

All that was cut off in his mind as the control board bleeped for slip-out. “Better fasten those pads around you, sir,” he advised, helping lay the protective coverings about the old man’s body, “we’re just about ready to translate.”

Herber’s wonderously-outfitted diplomatic ship settled down through the shifting colors of Inverspace, and abruptly translated out.

In normal space, the planet was even more imposing.

Forty-mile-high buildings of delicate pastel tracery reached for the sky. Huge ships plied back and forth in a matter of minutes, between the three large continents.

There were unrecognizable constructions everywhere: evidence of a highly advanced science, a complicated culture. There was evidence everywhere of the superior intellect of these people. Herber sat beside the Captain and smiled.

“We can learn a great deal from these people, Singh,” he said quietly, almost reverently. His pinched, wrinkled features settled into an expression of momentary rest. This was an ultimate end. They had found their brothers in the stars.

“Now to offer our credentials. Hand me the beamer, will you, Singh. Ah…that’s good…thanks. I hope they get the escort ships out quickly…I can’t wait to see that world close up. Why, the secret of their instantaneous shipping—see how those ships disappear, and reappear over there!—that’s enough to ruin my cartel! Wonderful stuff they have down there…can’t wait to…well, that’ll all come later.”

He raised the beamer to his lips, and the transmitter arced the message out:

“We are the emissaries from Earth, here to offer you the fellowship and knowledge of our planet. We hope our brothers of the golden world are well. We request landing instructions.”

They waited. Singh spotted the spaceport, a huge and sprawling eighty-mile-wide affair with gigantic loading docks and golden ships aimed at the skies. He settled toward it, waiting for the signal to land. Finally, the sound came back:

“Owoooo, oowah wawooooo eeeeyahh, wooooo…”

Herber’s shriveled gnome face split into anger. “Trans. late it, Captain! Dammit, man, translate! We can’t take a chance on missing a note of introduction in any particular!”

The Captain hurriedly turned on the translator, and the sounds were re-routed. In a moment they came through, repeating the same message over and over, to the brothers from Earth. Wilson Herber listened, and his wrinkled face was overcome by an expression even he could not name.

After a while they didn’t bother listening. They just sat in the cab of the diplomatic ship, staring out at the golden world, these brothers from space, and the words echoed hollowly in their ears:

“Please go around to the service entrance. Please go around to the service entrance. Please…”

When I first arrived in New York, the city was in the midst of its Monsoon Season: January to December. After mooching room, board and writing counsel from Lester del Rey and his wife Evelyn for a few days, I moved into one of the great abodes of memorabilia in my life—a hotel on West 114th Street, where already resided Robert Silverberg, the writner, who had been attending Columbia University and selling stories on the side (or vice versa). In the first week of my residence, I completed three short stories. The first was sold to Larry Shaw, then editor of Infinity, and provided rent for several weeks to come. The second sold to Guilty Detective Story Magazine, and provided food for the tummy. The third was prompted by the dreadful weather, the silver rain that fell past my third floor window hour after hour. It did not sell till three years later, to the British magazine Science Fantasy. I rather liked the yarn, and could never understand why American science-fiction magazines were not devious enough to slip in a little straight fantasy every now and then. But since they don’t, I’m pleased to be able to have that third-written story in print again in this country, reminding me of my days of childhood naturalism in New York, when I stood before my grimy window and rather hysterically murmured